


False Negatives

by Caffeinated_Owlbear



Series: Ozone and Fresh Snow [2]
Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Angst First Smut Later, Atlas CEO Rhys, Everyone is feeling lonely, Hologram Handsome Jack, I Cannot Overemphasize the Amount of Mutual Idiocy, Imagined Non-Graphic Violence towards Digital Entitles (Who Aren't Jack), Jack Not Being a Complete Asshole, Jack Really Trying to NOT Be Jack for a Moment, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, No Seriously So Much Tension, Non-Explicit Sex, Non-Graphic Smut, Porn with Feelings, Post-Tales from the Borderlands, Sexual Tension, Tales From the Borderlands, Trippy, mutual idiots, post-tftbl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:54:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24498265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caffeinated_Owlbear/pseuds/Caffeinated_Owlbear
Summary: Jack hovers a finger over Rhys’s neural port. For a few seconds, no contact. Then he lets his finger pad land over the metal circle.Rhys’s eyes shoot open. “Jack–” His breath hitches. “Shit. Don’t… sneak up on me like that.” Rhys breathes out. Sighs. Makes no effort to move away, or swat at Jack’s hand, ineffectual though it would’ve been.The sound of Jack’s name caught on Rhys’s breath like that reaches into some part of Jack’s code that, apparently, has been specifically written to make a stab of… something go all the way through him. Well, shit. Maybe the sensory feedback coded into the holo isn’t just ones and zeros.=======AI Jack and Rhys share a moment, but neither trusts the other (or himself) enough to share more than that.Set post-TFBTL, partway through theLost and Foundtimeline.
Relationships: Handsome Jack/Rhys (Borderlands)
Series: Ozone and Fresh Snow [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1776886
Comments: 34
Kudos: 129





	1. Scientific Curiosity

**Author's Note:**

> Jack status: AI, post-TFTBL.  
> Current residence: inside Rhys’s head.  
> Number of failsafes and firewalls to protect Rhys: more than either of them would like.  
> Holographic projection: a bit starved of sensory input by now.
> 
> Technically a sequel to [Static](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24331093), strongly suggest reading that one first.
> 
> Recommended listening: [ Halsey instrumental again, this time, Gasoline](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7AvCbBsDXGM)

Jack is pacing the truly unimpressive length of what has to be the shittiest room in the shittiest hotel on the shittiest of the Edens. He doesn’t dodge the furniture as he walks, letting his hologram clip right through the foot of the bed, the useless coffee table, and Rhys’s stupidly long legs stretched out in front of the armchair their owner is sat in.

“Would you stop… ghosting through me, Jack,” Rhys mutters, his head thrown back against the armchair.

“What, make an actual effort to stop inconveniencing you, cupcake?” Jack half-growls, half-snorts. “You know that’s not me. Seriously, you ever catch me doing nice shit like that, that’s how you know it’s time to run a freaking malware scan.”

“That’d never work… Too many false positives,” Rhys grumbles.

“Hah. ‘Cause malware’s malicious, and I– yeah, I get it. That was pretty good, cupcake. Anyway, it’s not like you can feel me walking through you.”

“Can you?”

“Nope.” Jack stops in front of Rhys, his ankles clipping through the kid’s. “Guess I _am_ a ghost, Rhysie. Boo.”

Rhys lifts his head and gives Jack a look that makes _Jack_ feel a couple of centuries old. “You’re… being weird, Jack. Even by your usual standards.”

“ Maybe it’s your weird I’m picking up. You’re so freaking sleep deprived right now, your brain barely has enough processing power to host  _ you _ , let alone my handsome self.”

Jack’s not kidding. Rhys is going on, what, sixty hours with practically zero sleep now, and his brain’s starting to draw on emergency power, cutting processing capacity from whatever it doesn’t consider essential. Apparently, as far as the programming of Rhys’s cybernetics is concerned, the list of functions considered essential for Rhys’s brain does _not_ include Jack. The nerve.

Running on limited power makes Jack feel fuzzy around the edges, kinda like being drunk without any of the fun parts. And so freaking… cramped. Like being stuck in a room that’s too small for him, stuffed into clothes too small for him, forced into _skin_ that’s too small for him. The kind of feeling that, in the physical world, could be fixed with a long shower (scalding hot, so hot it actually hurts a bit, feels like it’s stripping your skin right off, but that’s kinda what you wanna do at the time anyway, so you let it, you stay there till you can’t even feel your skin anymore, and when you finally shut off the water, it feels like your whole _body_ can finally take a breath.)

Yeah. Long hot shower and some sleep. The former isn’t available to Jack till he gets back into his simulated living space, back at Atlas. The latter isn’t available, period.

“Just go the fuck to sleep, kiddo. You’re no use to anyone like this.”

“Not yet. Gotta answer some messages. There’s… stuff back at Atlas.” Rhys leans forward and paws at his ECHO communicator on the coffee table. It lies just within the reach of his fingertips, at that exact distance that Rhys’s attempts to grab it only push it further away. The kid drops his head onto his knees with a groan. Jack observes silently, sitting (or the closest equivalent thereof) at the foot of the bed.

Rhys lifts his head off his knees, but only far enough to support his chin with a hand. He looks like he’s contemplating Jack, but his eyes are so unfocused, he’s probably looking right through him. Well, more so than he normally would.

“Hey, remember when we did the thing when you, like…” Rhys places his thumb and pinkie on his temples, gives a squeeze and jerks his head backwards a fraction. “Whoomph. And then you were in my head again. Like, for real, sort of. With fewer firewalls. Kind of like back on Pandora. Remember that?”

“Yeah. [That was kinda fun](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24331093).” The memory pulls a small chuckle out of Jack. “You wanna do _that_ again? Not the worst idea, actually. The way you are right now, there’s a good chance the ‘whoomph’–” Jack mimes the grip on the temples and the head jerk “–is gonna knock you right out. Cheaper than sleeping pills, nicer than getting whacked over the head. Just about.”

“No, that’s not what I…” Rhys trails off, looks off to the side without turning his head, then looks back at Jack, actually focused this time. “So if I can’t feel you at all right now, how come I felt things… back then? I mean, like when you… Like your hands, on my face, and…” He swallows. “Yeah.”

Jack reaches out and taps Rhys’s neural port with a finger. Even a momentary contact makes Rhys flinch.

“Felt that, didn’t ya.” Jack chuckles. “That’s kinda like the primary interface for that, I guess. Long as I’m touching that, I’m just that tiny bit less of a ghost. As far as you’re concerned, anyway. Anyone else still wouldn’t feel a thing.”

“Do you?”

“Uh. Kinda?.. Definitely feels like… something. Can’t really put a name on it, this holo thing is a bit digital – heh, I mean, yeah, it is, but I meant more like, when it comes to sensory shit, while you’re in this thing, you either got it or you don’t. Not a whole bunch of different sensations, like in a body, or even that sim you’ve set up for me back at Atlas. Just one or zero. Well, mostly zero, I guess.”

“That sounds… bad.” 

The look that Rhys gives him makes Jack wish he’d given a different answer. What he should’ve said is, nah, kid, there’s no feelings in holo. It’s just not programmed that way. So no, Jack doesn’t feel anything in this form. Didn’t feel anything during the time Rhys is referring to, either. Certainly not the warm, weirdly _organic_ electricity of Rhys’s skin, so different from the low-frequency, distinctly _cybernetic_ thrum of his neural port under Jack’s finger, or– Yeah, didn’t feel any of that.

“Nah, it’s cool.” Jack leans back on his elbows, doing a pretty good job at not clipping through the bed. “So what’s with the scientific curiosity, Rhysie? Just procrastinating on your emails, or angling for a holo-booty call?”

“I, uh–”

Two spots of pink appear on Rhys’s cheeks.

“Well, holy shit.” Jack sits up and watches the progress of the blush as it colonizes the kid’s face inch by inch. “So, just to clear it up, you asking me if _I_ felt anything back then, when I had my fingers all over that pretty face of yours, was that your way of being nice, cupcake? You wanna make out or whatever, but it just wouldn’t _feel right_ if Jack doesn’t get something out of it, too?”

“No, that wasn’t– Oh god, why do you always– Fuck, Jack. Forget it.” Rhys throws himself back into the depths of the armchair again.

Jack’s got the next bit of scathing commentary locked and loaded, mostly on the subject of how really fucking flattered he is by the offer, no, like, seriously, Handsome Jack, Rhysie baby’s booty call at the end of a shitty day, that’s the dream, right; followed by a suggestion for Rhysie baby to go down to the hotel bar and find someone actually corporeal to make out with his pretty face, which, given the prettiness of the face in question, shouldn’t take more than, oh, thirty seconds flat.

He doesn’t really feel like saying any of it, though. Maybe ‘cause Rhys’s exhaustion is seeping through whatever limited interface they do share. Exhaustion with a good side of the ‘god, why me’ flavor of existential despair, the exact kind you get after having a couple of shitty days in a row with no sleep in between. (It’s not like Jack in his current holo state can even _have_ bad days, but he remembers moments like that back in the times of corporeal existence, that encroaching sense of pure _defeat_ when you don’t even know what time it is anymore, but your whole world seems to be stuck between 3 and 4 am, scientifically proven to be the worst hour ever invented.)

That, and the kid looks like a kicked puppy; no, a  _ drowned  _ puppy; no, a bag of puppies that had been almost drowned, fished out of the river, used for a football team’s practice, and tossed right back in.

That, _and_ it’s fricking hilarious how awkward Rhysie is being about it. Or it should be hilarious, anyway. Any other moment, Jack would be howling with laughter by now, because come _on_ , how awkward can a grown freaking man get when talking about, god, not even sex, but _makeouts_? Jack doesn’t quite feel like laughing at the moment, though. Maybe it's that 'bag of puppies' problem, ruining such a good thing.

Also. Jack kinda wants to do it. It’s like he said: not exactly spoiled for sensory input in the holo world. So. Yeah, Jack’s down for whatever the kid’s got in mind. Not to sound desperate or anything.

“Sorry.” Rhys says, kinda addressing the ceiling at this point. “That was… That wasn’t even stupid, that was, like, the next level. And I, uh… Didn’t mean to insult you or anything. I’m _really_ not thinking straight anymore.”

No, thinks Jack. You’re not. That makes two, cupcake.

“Hey,” Jack says.

Rhys grunts something vague in acknowledgment, face still turned towards the ceiling, eyes closed.

“Rhysie.”

No answer. I swear to god, thinks Jack, if he picked  _ this moment  _ to finally fall asleep…

He gets to his feet and walks over to Rhys’s armchair. Stops next to it, sits himself on the armrest.

“Eden… are we on five? Eden-5 to Rhys. You still there?”

“Yeah.”

Jack hovers a finger over Rhys’s neural port. For a few seconds, no contact. Then he lets his finger pad land over the metal circle.

Rhys’s eyes shoot open. “Jack–” His breath hitches. “Shit. Don’t… sneak up on me like that.” Rhys breathes out. Sighs. Makes no effort to move away, or swat at Jack’s hand, ineffectual though it would’ve been.

The sound of Jack’s name caught on Rhys’s breath like that reaches into some part of Jack’s code that, apparently, has been specifically written to make a stab of… something go all the way through him. Well, shit. Maybe the sensory feedback coded into the holo isn’t just ones and zeros.

Well, obviously, ultimately it  _ is _ , that’s what Jack is, a bunch of ones and zeros rather awesomely arranged, but maybe there’s more to his hologram’s sensory palette than he thought. Wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to find out.

Also. Scientific curiosity, right. This is his holo, his code, his actual form right now. Gotta know what this thing can do.

“Go on, kiddo,” Jack says, leaning over to Rhys’s face, finger still resting on Rhys’s temple.

Rhys is staring up at him; his eyes look wrong to Jack for a split second, before Jack realizes he was half-expecting to see brown and blue instead of brown and gold. Which is clearly a memory glitch; Jack has seen the kid’s new ECHO eye, has seen him with it for the last, oh, two years by now.

Gotta scan those memory files, see why they keep throwing outdated images at him. Later.

Jack gives the kid a smile; one of his nicer ones, a smile that suggests that even if Jack’s up to something (‘cause of course Jack’s always up to something), it’s also Jack’s intention for the receiver of that smile to survive it, probably.

“Tell me what you got in mind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The simulated reality I mention in this fic is heavily inspired by the computer simulation Rhys creates for AI Jack in [Devil You Know by marchpanes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18287222/chapters/43280858), a truly brilliant story, and, in my opinion, the best post-TFTBL ever written. I couldn't recommend it strongly enough. It's being updated very slowly, but NOT abandoned. Go read it. Seriously.


	2. Ground Rules

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've been following my listening recommendations, we're back to [Control, Instrumental](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c8_zKrmY2y4) for this chapter. Basically, for the rest of this fic, unless specified otherwise, it's [Control](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c8_zKrmY2y4) for Rhys's pov, [Gasoline](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7AvCbBsDXGM) for Jack's.

This has been a long day. About three days’ worth of days, filled with metaphorical hitting of Rhys’s head on brick walls, proverbial knives in Rhys’s back, and one very literal baton swipe to Rhys’s ankles from someone who had decided Rhys was their ticket to a better, or at the very least, richer future. (Decent reflexes and good use of the cyber arm saved Rhys from the worst of that encounter, but not without the casualty of his bag with takeout; and he knew there was no point going back for another; the place his dinner came from was the last food joint still open in the area, and had only sold him his original, now-trampled dinner after he waved a stack of bills at the person who'd flipped the door sign to ‘closed’ in front of Rhys's face.)

So, thinks Rhys, let’s tally up. Still no progress on the Vault key. At least one department at Atlas leaking intel to Maliwan. A couple of bruises. No dinner.

Sounds like a stellar sixty hours so far. Now let’s wrap it up in style.

By asking for pity makeouts.

By asking for pity makeouts with a _hologram_.

By asking for pity makeouts with a hologram of _Jack_.

Rhys wishes he could reach his ECHO on the coffee table, just to snap a picture for the scrapbook of his lowest moments. This one could probably go on the cover.

But that would mean moving. And also, moving away from Jack’s hand. Rhys honestly doesn’t know which he would loathe to do more now: to have to move his body, or to lose that warmth at his temple, so weirdly… reassuring. If there was one thing, just one thing about Jack that could ever be found on the same page as the word ‘reassuring’… this would probably be it. This, here now. The feeling of his hand at Rhys’s neural port.

“Tell me what you got in mind,” says Jack.

A part of Rhys wants to tell Jack that this, here, this will do. Maybe he could just sit like this. For a while. Or until Jack gets bored, so, two minutes max. Still… that wouldn’t be bad.

Another part of Rhys remembers that Jack’s fingers taste like ozone and fresh snow.

“Okay,” says Rhys. “Ground rules.”

Jack watches him silently. With a smile that seems to suggest that the very notion of ground rules is moot. _Ground rules? Cute, cupcake. Real cute, you thinking you get to lay ground rules when playing with Handsome Jack._

“We kiss. We touch.” Rhys gets the words out as fast as humanly possible without letting his speech collapse into a blur, because if he let that happen… He’d have to _repeat it_.

Jack nods.

“This is the line.” Rhys swipes his hand from shoulder to shoulder. “You stay above it. Is that clear?”

“Yeah. Loud and clear, cupcake.” Did Jack’s smile get just that tiny bit darker?

Rhys swallows. Shit. He should just back out now.

“I mean it, Jack.” Rhys pushes every scrap of weakness from his voice, pulls every remaining shred of strength into it. “One pixel over the line. One _suggestion_ that we go over. And this… whatever this is. It’s done. We’re done.”

“You wanna… expand on that, Rhysie? Done, as in?..”

He really, _really_ wishes Jack would stop smiling.

“Done, as in, I’ll be finally getting some sleep, and you’ll be spending the night in that lobotomized ECHO that I still got in my suitcase. Still loud and clear, Jack?”

“Oh yeah.” Jack nods.

The _ache_ at the loss of the touch at Rhys’s temple is actually physical; a small hollow in Rhys’s chest that wasn't there a moment ago, but now is there, and filled with lead.

Jack meets his gaze. He’s not smiling anymore.

“It’s not that you’re not hot when you’re making threats, babe, but… not sure that’s doing it for me right now.”

Rhys has changed his mind. He’ll take any of Jack’s smiles, even the absolute worst one, combined with the most horrible, mocking tone Jack can muster, over this blank, unreadable look and the terrifyingly level voice.

“And it’s not like I’m expecting you to trust me. We both you don’t. But if you can’t trust me in just this one thing, trust me to… respect your wishes in ‘this-whatever-this-is’, or whatever you kids are calling it these days… why the hell did you even _start_ this tonight.”

Shit, thinks Rhys. Shit, shit, shit.

This isn’t what I meant, Rhys wants to say.

Except it is. Because of course Rhys doesn’t trust Jack.

Except it isn’t. Because Rhys not trusting Jack is nothing new. Rhys not trusting _Rhys…_ that’s the real problem here.

Rhys is hoping, as desperately as he’s ever hoped for anything, that Jack’s done talking. Because if Jack keeps talking, one of them is going to bring up _that time._

That one moment between them in the simulated reality. Well, they’d had more than one ‘moment’ there. They’d kissed. More than once. He’d kissed Jack. And Jack had kissed him. And every single time had felt so terrifyingly, thrillingly real _. Impossibly_ real, in a place where literally nothing was. But maybe that was just the thing: out in the world, Jack couldn’t make himself as real as Rhys (not yet, anyway), but inside the program, Rhys could and _did_ make himself as not-real as Jack, as not-real as everything in that not-reality, and it was… yeah.

Until one day when– Rhys would really like to say that on that day, it was Jack, again, who ruined everything. But it was probably a joint effort.

They disagreed on something. Rhys can’t even remember the details anymore. Some decision Rhys made about Atlas. Which shouldn’t have been a big deal, just the kind of argument business partners have, and when it came to Atlas, they were, they still _are_ partners. But the argument turned into a fight. In which Jack, of course, was being fundamentally Jack, but Rhys, instead of being fundamentally Rhys, had also tried to be _Jack_ , tried to throw Jack’s arrogant douchebag attitude right back at him, and… and what the hell was he thinking that day? Did he actually think he could play Handsome Jack on the man's own turf and win? Or even draw?

Rhys losing that day was a foregone conclusion. And somehow, the game ended with Jack’s lips and teeth on Rhys’s neck, and Jack’s breath on his skin, and Jack whispering in Rhys’s ear. Whispering terrible, _terrible_ things about who the hell did Rhysie think he was, did he _really_ think he was in control here, is _this_ what being in control looks like, Rhysie, is this what being in control _sounds_ like? While Jack’s hands were on Rhys, all over Rhys, doing whatever Jack wanted, and whatever Jack wanted, that was everything that _Rhys_ wanted, too.

That, thinks Rhys, that was the worst part. He hadn’t just let Jack do it. He hadn’t just _allowed_ things to happen. No. Every single kiss, every single touch, Rhys had wanted it, welcomed it, craved it, ached for it, and, after a certain point, would’ve begged for it, had Jack chosen to stop. He knew it. Jack knew it. He knew that Jack knew. And it didn’t matter.

Okay, maybe _that_ was the worst part. The worst part of… what had to be the highest _and_ lowest point of his life to that date.

Oh god, is it even possible to be more pathetic.

Yes, Rhys’s brain supplies, helpfully. Not five minutes ago, you asked to make out with Jack’s hologram. And now you’ve pissed him off, so if you still want it (you still want it), you’re about thirty seconds away from apologizing.

Rhys looks up at Jack, who is standing a few feet away now, arms crossed, head cocked to the side, observing Rhys with a small smirk. Which feels like a small mercy, somehow; at least it’s not that terrible blank look anymore.

Is he really waiting for an apology? For Rhys to _beg_ him to come back? So Jack would put his hand at Rhys’s temple, and trail lines of soft static on his skin, and maybe this time Rhys can find out what Jack’s _lips_ taste like in his holo form.

Rhys’s insides are tying themselves into knot after knot after knot: over how much he wants Jack right now, how much he _needs_ Jack right now, how much he hates _himself_ right now. For wanting Jack, needing Jack, and _not_ hating Jack. He really wishes he could hate Jack.

Come on, says a part of Rhys that’s either crazy, or sick of feeling so pathetic, or both. With some practice, maybe you can. This is a good place to start. Take some cheap shots. See if anything lands.

_What do you want me to do, Jack? Beg you to stay? Yeah, that’s not happening. Hate to break it to you, man, but I guess I’m not as much into you as you think I am._

That would ruin the evening beyond repair, of course. Once again, not five minutes ago, Rhys had no idea this evening _could_ be ruined further.

_For someone who stands there looking all indignant and insulted, Jack, you’re sure not in a hurry to blow this whole thing off. Or is my face really so pretty you can’t walk away from it?_

Rhys swallows the words, but they get caught on the vicious barbs that are crawling up the back of his throat.

 _Yeah. If this_ really _isn’t doing it for you, Jack, well, go ahead and walk away. I may have suggested we have a little bit of fun, but you know you want this too, Jack, so don’t you fucking dare act like you’re humoring me._

The venom in that last one is strong enough to burn through layers on layers of Rhys’s exhaustion. No, no, no, thinks Rhys, even as the words are lining up behind his lips.

“You know what, Rhysie,” Jack says before any of Rhys’s words can get out. (Thank you, thinks Rhys, desperately, pathetically, exhaustedly.) “You better get on those emails. I’m gonna go see if I can glitch my way into that vending machine down the hall. Peace out, kiddo.”

Jack turns and heads towards the door, throwing a peace sign so half-hearted it’s mostly a middle finger.

Would you look at that, Rhys. You didn’t even _need_ to say any of that stuff to ruin the evening beyond repair. Utter annihilation in three… two…

“Jack.”

Jack doesn’t turn. Doesn’t stop. But, and it may well be Rhys’s wistful imagination, he takes his next step a fraction more slowly. Maybe a fraction of a fraction.

“Can we… rewind?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't lying about the "mutual idiots" tag...
> 
> Sexier times beginning in the next chapter, promise!


	3. Empirical Research

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally we're getting somewhere... Both POVs in this one, you're welcome.

Jack’s more than halfway to the door when he hears Rhys’s voice behind him, but that’s not enough to make him stop. Not the sound of his name (contrary to popular belief, Jack’s not _that_ easy), not the weird, slightly broken note in Rhys’s voice as he says it (contrary to whatever else has transpired so far tonight, Jack’s not feeling _that_ nice).

No, whatever game Rhysie’s playing here, whatever this hot and cold bullshit is all about, Jack doesn’t have time for that. He’s only got a few hours to see if he can make the vending machine spit hot coffee in people’s faces; it’s not just entertainment, you know, it’s all part of Jack’s research on what kind of software he can worm his way into while in this form and still firewalled by Rhys; so far, he’s been able to hack a microwave, a thermostat, and some douche’s step counter.

Anyway, whatever the kid is gonna say next, whether he’s gonna apologize, or ask Jack to come back, it’s not gonna work. The moment’s gone. And good riddance. It was getting weird there for a second.

“Can we… rewind?”

Shit. Jack watches his own feet, suddenly still. He wills them to keep walking. They will not.

Had Rhys said anything else, thinks Jack, anything even remotely resembling a command or even a request, this would be the moment to suspect that an override has been slipped into Jack’s code somewhere, some way to let Rhys _actually_ control his actions. Or maybe there _is_ an override somewhere. And this, just now, was a trigger word. 

Rewind.

Wouldn’t it be great if the universe had that function. You do something stupid, so colossally stupid that it’s obvious even as you’re doing it, but you do it anyway ‘cause… ‘cause of any number of reasons. And then you just… rewind. Wouldn’t that make things easy.

Actually, no. ‘Rewind’ is the wrong word here. When you rewind something, you go back and pretend like something that’s happened hasn’t happened yet, you pretend you don’t know what’s coming, and then you watch it happen again, exactly the same as before. So unless the kid literally wants to have the same dumb conversation again, he doesn’t _really_ wanna rewind. What he wants is to restore a save point. Pick a moment, pretend that everything after it never happened, and try for a different result.

Wouldn’t it be great if the universe had _that_ function.

Okay, thinks Jack. Let’s pretend, for a moment, that it does. Let’s pick a save point. Some time _after_ this evening went in the direction that ended up with his fingers on the side of Rhys’s face. Some time _before_ it all went sideways.

He turns around. (Actually, he kinda wants to walk backwards, like the last few minutes are being _literally_ rewound; he could even make his speech function replay the last things he said, back to front and at 1.5x speed. That would be hilarious, and probably piss the kid off. Which he totally deserves right now, by the way.)

“Okay.” Jack walks over to Rhys’s armchair. (Facing the right way round; he’ll save that bit for another time.) “Back to ground rules. Sound good, cupcake?”

Rhys nods. He looks older, thinks Jack, with all the extra angles and shadows added by exhaustion. Who’d’ve thunk sleep deprivation would actually be a good shade on the kid. If Rhysie could survive staying awake for another day, he might even look his _actual_ age.

Jack stands in front of the armchair, steps one foot over Rhys’s outstretched legs, leans forward to set a knee on the seat cushion, next to Rhys’s thigh. Watches Rhys’s mouth as he reaches for his temple again. Doesn’t miss the tiny intake of breath as his fingers make contact with the metal of his neural port. 

The subtle thrum of the cybernetics slips into the fabric of Jack’s hologram, a familiar-by-now extra layer, like programming comments scattered through code.

“Kiss,” says Jack, and leans to brush his lips on the corner of Rhys’s jaw. He sees Rhys’s throat move as he swallows.

“Touch.” The backs of Jack’s fingers, a slow downward stroke from Rhys’s cheekbone, down the side of his neck, and to the curve of his shoulder.

“This is the line.” Jack drags a fingertip across the top of Rhys’s chest, one shoulder to the other, past the dip between his clavicles visible through the open shirt collar. “We good, cupcake?”

“Yeah.” Rhys swallows again, draws a slow breath.

(As Jack watches Rhys draw that breath through parted lips, Jack’s mind flips through his well-studied catalog of varied but similarly-themed ideas concerning Rhys’s mouth, and, in a move that surprises even Jack, settles on a kiss. That’s what Jack would do if he had a body right now. Just crush his lips against Rhys’s mouth and kiss him until neither of them can fucking breathe.) 

Jack lets his hand curve along the side of Rhys’s face, palm against cheek, and brushes his thumb over Rhys’s lips. He doesn’t feel Rhys’s breath, warm on his skin; one, the holo doesn’t pick up temperatures; two, the holo doesn’t have a skin, it barely has a _surface_. But the sound and sight of it are enough to imagine the feeling, layered on top of the soft electric feedback that passes for touch in Jack’s world right now.

Rhys closes his eyes as he lets his lips part further, and Jack traces the contour of his mouth. The inside of his bottom lip, sharper and more conductive. As Jack shifts his thumb away, to rest under Rhys’s chin, there’s a small sound of protest. It turns into a soft gasp as Jack covers Rhys’s mouth with his.

  
  


* * *

Rhys leans into the kiss instinctively, seeking Jack’s lips with his, and starts back a moment later, his whole mouth abuzz with static. He drags a finger over his teeth to stop them itching.

Opening his eyes, he finds Jack’s face right in front of his, lips curved in amusement.

“Whoa there, kiddo. You do it like this, you might as well go lick a bunch of batteries.”

“Sorry,” Rhys mutters. He can already feel a blush spreading over his face again. “This is… new for me.”

“You and me both, cupcake. So, and this isn’t something you’d usually hear me say, but… We gotta take it slow. Close your eyes now.”

The very idea of closing his eyes when told so by Jack is enough to stir a sprout of a panic in the pit of Rhys’s stomach. It doesn’t seem a good idea to try and stamp it out. So Rhys lets it stay where it is. But he closes his eyes anyway.

Soft static brushes over his lips. Menthol chapstick, just like last time; both last times, the one some weeks back, and the one seconds ago. After a few slow journeys around his mouth, Jack’s finger slips past his lips. Rhys keeps perfectly still, and seconds later, that taste is on his tongue again. That exact taste he remembers. Ozone and fresh snow.

“Okay…” Jack says, and Rhys can’t tell if the voice is in his ear, or inside his mind, or a stereo of both. “Just like that.”

Rhys lets his mouth open some more. More of the same taste, a little sharper, a little more _solid_ , somehow. It doesn’t make sense for electricity to feel solid. Then again, it doesn’t make sense for it to feel _warm_ , either, but that’s exactly what Jack’s other hand feels like, his finger at Rhys’s temple, his palm along the side of Rhys’s face. He moves his tongue against Jack’s fingers slowly. Then the rest of his mouth, using the minute hum at the edge of his teeth to navigate by.

“You’re a quick learner, Rhysie.” Jack’s voice is low and quiet. “I’m gonna kiss you now.”

The taste and the hum leave Rhys’s mouth, leaving a cold tingle on his tongue. Eyes closed, he waits. Jack only makes him wait a few seconds.

This time, Rhys knows to take it slow, to listen for the changing sensations in his mouth and respond with careful movements of his lips, slow brushes of his tongue. He knows not to throw himself into the kiss as he would if he were kissing Jack in the simulation, the closest he’d ever gotten to the real thing.

(He’s never kissed Jack in the flesh; he's never _touched_ Jack in the flesh; would he ever? Even if their half-baked plan to get Jack a body worked out in the end, would Jack _let_ anything happen between them, would Jack _want_ to do anything with him? When Jack’s very existence is no longer connected to Rhys, would Jack still… want him? Not as in, _want_ him, but as in, when Rhys is no longer the _only_ person in Jack’s world, would Jack still want Rhys to be in his world?) 

(But also, would Jack still _want_ him?) 

Jack kisses him for a while. It’s slow and… Rhys casts around for a word and settles on ‘meticulous’. It feels almost like research. Like Jack is working through all the possibilities available to him right now, thoroughly, thoughtfully. Exploring all of the ways in which their mouths can interact right now. The options, the limitations, the feedback.

It doesn’t take Rhys long to start picking apart the different sensations, to be able to tell the difference between the touch of Jack’s lips, and Jack’s tongue, and Jack’s teeth. The slow pulses of soft static over Rhys’s mouth. The flashes of a crisp, cold taste on Rhys’s tongue. The pinpricks against Rhys’s bottom lip.

Rhys follows along, and maybe he _is_ a quick learner like Jack said, or maybe kissing Jack, in any form, is just something that comes naturally to him. (He chases the thought away just in case Jack can read it, somehow. _“Better put that on your resume under ‘special skills’, cupcake.”_ )

One of Jack’s hands remains on Rhys’s temple, and Rhys wonders if Jack knows how different his touches feel there, too. How it’s an entirely different sensation when Jack simply rests his finger over the cybernetics, or when a fingertip draws slow, warm circles along the edge, or, or–

Or when Jack presses the pad of his finger flat against the neural port, maximizing the contact surface, making sure that every part of the cybernetic interface on Rhys’s temple is enveloped by his holographic touch. A surge of static travels through Rhys, from head to toe, and, with what little part of him can still think, Rhys finds himself thinking back to the ground rules. How stupid, the very idea. Jack would never need to cross any lines Rhys has drawn, or even venture close to them. Why would he need to, when with a single touch like this, _yes, just like this,_ Jack can make Rhys feel him everywhere. Jack can _be_ everywhere. Rhys’s every sense, every cybernetic pathway, every nerve flooded with… Jack.

Rhys moans as a full-body shiver presses him deeper into the armchair. Jack’s touch on his temple grows lighter.

(Jack shouldn’t be able to do this to him. Not like this, not right now, not with the firewall– Oh fuck, oh _fucking fuck_ , _is_ Jack still behind the firewall? Yes, yes, he is. Then how. How is Jack doing this to him.)

“Do that again…” Rhys mutters into the kiss, static stinging his lips as they move through Jack’s.

For a moment, nothing. Then Jack does it again. Rhys’s fingers dig into the armrests of the chair.

Another pause, filled with light touch and warm circles. Then. Again.

“Oh god, Jack–”

(Rhys didn’t mean to say that out loud. He thinks he can hear a quiet chuckle. Jack’s probably laughing at him. _“Too easy, cupcake,”_ Jack would say right now. “ _Way too easy.”_ )

Jack’s touch on his temple grows light again. A trail of static moves along Rhys’s jaw, down the side of his neck, along his collar bone, back up his throat. He can feel Jack’s lips hover over his.

“Again?..”

Rhys breathes a silent answer. At this point, really more of a plea.

_Yes._


	4. Practical Application

It was easier when Jack thought the sensations in his hologram really _were_ digital. Or it was _simpler_ , anyway. Just ones and zeros, right. Wrong. Who would’ve thought there would be so many… decimals. So many points between one and zero, a new point discovered and landmarked by every sound and sight in front of him.

The tiny moans spilling from Rhys’s lips. The way his chest and shoulders tense at the press of Jack’s finger against his temple. The shuddering _sigh_ with which Rhys’s body relaxes when Jack lightens the contact. The–

“Oh god, Jack–”

Yeah. That’s a whole multitude of decimals, right fucking there.

This… may be getting a bit much. Maybe not yet _too_ much for Jack, but… yeah, definitely getting there.

Except there’s no actual _there_ to be getting to. The _there_ is not a feature of this holo.

(Who would’ve thought, right. Considering this program’s original author.)

(Okay, Jack, of all things to bring to mind right now, maybe you don’t wanna be thinking about Nakayama.)

Anyway. Things getting a bit too much for Jack is just the half of it. Literally. There’s the other half of this encounter, the one with his eyes closed, his fingers gripping the armchair and who, as Jack trails his lips up his throat, mouths Jack’s name again, soundlessly this time. (And another step closer to ‘too much’ we go.)

“Again?..” Jack whispers against Rhys’s mouth and watches for the ‘yes’, and instead of just his finger this time, presses the top of his palm against the thrumming cybernetics, and is prepared to follow Rhys’s reflexive movement and keep the contact unbroken, keep his own lips still hovering over Rhys’s.

The sight of Rhys’s head arched back like this. The sound that goes from his mouth straight into Jack’s. And– yes, here we go, this _is_ now too much for Jack. Officially.

(Okay, but seriously, if this holo doesn’t come programmed with the ability to get off, why, why, _why_ would it have the possibility to get _so fucking wound up_?)

(Again, not the best time to be thinking about Nakayama, but was this the man’s idea of a sick joke? Revenge of some sort? Talk about a cruel and unusual punishment.)

Rhys does that little _sigh_ of his again, moves his mouth against Jack’s, an almost-kiss that’s too vague for Jack to follow without the edges of their lips clipping through each other just that bit. He tilts his head, as if trying to lean into Jack’s hand, which Jack’s keeping lightly rested along the side of the kid’s head. Another sigh, a bit louder this time.

Jack lets his gaze wander down Rhys’s body. One of the kid’s hands has moved from gripping the armrest to gripping his own thigh. Fingers digging in so hard he’s gonna have bruises tomorrow.

Well… At least Jack’s not the only one facing a real risk of disintegration through frustration.

“Hey, cupcake,” Jack says, making sure he’s looking Rhys in the face as he says it. “How about I… give you some privacy?”

“Huh?..” Rhys mutters, his eyes still closed.

Jack considers his next words. The cruder, crud _est,_ option is an obvious go-to, ‘cause Jack knows that when it comes to being awkward about sex, Rhysie does _not_ disappoint, and Jack could use a good laugh right about now. It’d probably reset his holo right back to normal. Who the hell knows what the normal mode even _is_ in this thing, but it’s gotta be one in which Jack doesn’t feel like this. 

(Like he’s a freaking hard drive stuck between two heavy-duty magnets. Pulled apart, slowly, inexorably, in every direction. Thoughts scattering, crumbling, _fragmenting_.)

Yeah. The crude option is basically self-preservation at this point. And it’d be freaking hilarious to watch Rhys dissolve into a blushing and stammering mess, instead of the beautiful (goddamn beautiful) mess he’s right now. A nice change of pace.

“Well. You obviously need to… take care of things.”

Nope. That wasn’t crude; not by Jack’s standards; hell, not by _anyone’s_ standards.

(What the fuck, man. You can do better than that. Or is your brain _actually_ being demagnetized right now?)

“’Cause it kinda hurts to watch you by this point? Seriously, I think I’m getting sympathy pains here, and this software doesn’t even have _hardware_ support, if you know what I mean.”

Okay. _Okay_. That was better.

Rhys finally opens his eyes, lifting his head to look at Jack. By now, Jack’s ghosted his way through the side of the armchair, standing off to the side and looking down at the kid. Keeping a light touch on Rhys’s temple, but that’s it.

“Really?” Rhys sounds a bit dazed, like he’s still not getting where Jack's going with this. “That’s not part of… your program?”

There _is_ some extra pink in the kid’s cheeks now, Jack notes with some satisfaction. Nowhere as much as expected, though. Yeah, that can be fixed.

“Oh, _cupcake_.” Jack gives Rhys the dirtiest look. “If it was technically possible for me to _jack off_ in this holo, you’d have many, _many_ vivid memories by now.”

“Uh…” 

Ah, there we go. The proper blush, the stammer – mission accomplished.

“But, things being what they are, and working under our rule set, well, I think I’ve delivered on my part of the deal.” Jack gives Rhys a purposefully slow once-over, and completes it with a wink. “Wouldn’t you say, Rhysie? So how about I just walk through this wall here, and you do what you need to do.” 

Jack leans on the back of the armchair, waiting for Rhys’s answer. Not that he needs the kid’s say-so. He can just walk away. Break off the contact with Rhys’s cybernetics, and do just what he said he was gonna do. Walk away, leave Rhys to his business. Maybe even spare a parting remark about this being the kind of business Rhysie can manage _without_ Jack holding his hand, _though based on how long you’re taking to answer, cupcake, maybe you’d still_ like _me to._

Rhys looks up at him, and before he even says anything, there’s something in his brown and gold stare that, just for a moment, gives Jack the ability to see a few seconds into the future, and that knowledge makes so many pieces of Jack’s code ignore their syntax, forgo their purpose and abandon their functions except whichever one is required to spell out, in the largest font supported by his system: _oh shit._

"You… don't have to leave,” Rhys says.

(You should’ve walked away faster, Jack. Instead of thinking up lines you _knew_ you weren't gonna use, not tonight, anyway.)

“I mean… you could stay."

(You should be walking away _right fucking now_ , Jack. Instead of actually considering it.)

“Like… if you wanted to… stay.”

(Start. Walking. Jack.)

“I’d… rather you stayed.”

* * *

So. That’s the way it goes, then, thinks Rhys, with a strange, absent clarity, like his own brain is having an out-of-body experience. First, you and Jack– No, no, be honest now, first you _straight up come on to Jack_ and end up in the weirdest makeout session of your life. (But, like… _good_ weird.)

And then, when Jack, classy as always, suggests he leaves so you can get yourself off, your first response is, essentially, _what about you, Jack, are you gonna do that too?.._ Not in so many words, but very far on the other side of subtle.

Your second response– after getting briefly distracted by Jack’s comment about absent hologram features and vivid memories…

Your _second_ response is to tell Jack he can stay. If Jack wanted to stay. Because you want Jack to stay. You’re _asking_ Jack to stay. To be here. With you. While you get yourself off. Rhys.

Yes. Apparently, that’s the way it goes.

Rhys is looking up at Jack, unable to read the emotions on his hologram’s face. There’s definitely _something_ , but Rhys is too dazed to try and parse it properly. And definitely too tired to even be mortified. Too tired to be anything, really. To do anything. Except sit here and let Jack decide what’s gonna happen.

And whatever it’s going to be… it can’t be that bad, right? Like… so far, so good, right?

(...it’s been _so good_ , so far.)

“I’ll, uh…” Jack clears his throat, which isn’t something Rhys thought a holographic projection needed to do. “I’ll be honest with you, Rhysie. Any other day I’d be all about watching you like this, and, after the two years we’ve been hanging out, it’d be real stupid for either of us to pretend like this’d be the first time I see it. But, uh. I don’t think I can do that right now.”

“You don’t have to,” says Rhys. His hand goes up his thigh and to his belt, moving on its own accord. In any other situation, Rhys would think that maybe Jack has finally found a way to control him, somehow: even his flesh hand, even from behind the firewall. But Rhys knows that right now, Jack isn’t controlling his movement. For that matter, neither is Rhys.

“I mean,” Rhys continues, watching Jack’s gaze dart down before settling on his face again. “You don’t have to just watch.”

(Jack probably thinks Rhys is trying to play him, or something. Trying to… manipulate him? _“Come on, Rhysie. We both know you’ve got a pretty face, but whatever game you’re playing here, you’re gonna need more than that.”_ Trying to _seduce_ Jack. Wouldn’t that be laughable. No, that’s not what’s happening here. What’s happening is just… happening. If Jack doesn’t want to be a part of it, Rhys can’t do anything to make him stay.)

(But like he said. He really would rather Jack stayed.)

Jack swallows. Another thing Rhys never thought a holographic projection needed to do. “I’ve been doing a real good job respecting the ground rules, Rhysie. But you keep talking like that, and thirty seconds from now, you’re gonna be yanking me right out of your head and straight into that offline ECHO.” Jack chuckles. “‘Cause there’s no way I’ll be able to keep my… pixels above that line.”

Jack’s finger starts trailing soft electricity from one of Rhys’s shoulders to the other, along the very line in question. As Jack traces his clavicle again, Rhys reaches for Jack’s wrist. Though his metal fingers go right through Jack’s hand, it’s enough to make Jack stop. They stay like that for a moment, Rhys’s fingers _humming_ where his cybernetics and the field of Jack’s holo overlap.

“I’m really fucking sick of the line, Jack.” Rhys lets go – well, not really, but it feels like letting go – of Jack’s hand and opens a button on his shirt. Another.

(This really does look and sound and feel like some super-awkward seduction. Jack’s never going to let Rhys live this down. _Rhys_ is never going to let Rhys live this down.)

(But maybe both Jack and Rhys can wait till tomorrow before they start getting on Rhys’s case.)

“Go on, Jack,” says Rhys. “Either walk away, or…”

“Or?..” Jack asks in _that_ voice again. The low, quiet voice that, outside of this evening, Rhys really hasn’t heard very often.

Rhys closes his eyes. “Or… just touch me already, Jack. Or kiss me, or… whatever. Do something, anything. Just don’t just fucking stand there, okay? Or… what the fuck, _do_ stand there if you want to.”

For a moment, nothing changes. Then all of Rhys’s cybernetics go quiet, quiet and empty and cold and dark, like there’s no longer life or current inside them, like Rhys is no longer inside them. Except Rhys is still inside them, of course. _Jack_ isn’t.

There have probably been worse moments in Rhys’s life. _Objectively_ , there have been worse moments in Rhys’s life. Nearly dying on Pandora, too many times to count. Hurtling towards the ground in an escape pod as Helios crumbled around him. The time when he was sure Sasha was going to die. The second before one last pull on the wire of his original, blue ECHO eye.

Compared to that, sitting in a safe and reasonably comfy hotel room, on a safe and reasonably decent planet, with your biggest complaints being exhaustion and being walked out on halfway through a holographic booty call… that moment shouldn’t be in the top ten. Or top anything. That moment shouldn’t even be competing.

At the time, however, the few seconds in which Rhys is so _alone_ in his head and body all of a sudden, with his cybernetics working _as normal_ but also _entirely, completely wrong_ , with Jack’s hand no longer touching his neural port… Those seconds may not _be_ the worst moment of his life, but who cares? They definitely _feel_ like that.

Until the feeling of Jack floods all his senses again, and everything is back and good and _right_ again, and Rhys opens his eyes with a tiny sob, and sees Jack in front of him, and neither of Jack’s hands is touching Rhys’s neural port right now, but it’s okay, it’s okay, _it’s okay_ , because Rhys can still feel Jack's touch on his temple, and from the way Jack is leaning over him right now, Rhys knows that's the touch of Jack’s lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much love to [**Lemscape for their beautiful fan art**](https://twitter.com/Lemscape/status/1271484102357770241) for this chapter. A sweeter, gentler take on the events. <3


	5. Non-Standard Protocols

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The penultimate chapter. Thank you for making it this far, I hope you've enjoyed this weird AF ride!  
> This is also a good time to point you to the fic that gave a lot of inspiration for this work and this chapter in particular, [what a lovely way to burn by imaginarykat](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6142948), which is full of beautiful, trippy and sexy mind-sharing moments.

Unless he’s floating or walking through walls on purpose, Jack usually does a pretty good job at not clipping through the floor and the furniture; it kinda makes it easier to pretend he’s corporeal, to make this holo feel a bit less like a ghost.

Right now, Jack’s leaning over Rhys, and he doesn’t know if his feet are on or above or inside the floor, and at this point he doesn’t care if he’s clipping through the armchair or whatever else, as long as he’s not clipping through Rhys. Unless either of them actually wants that, like when Rhys passed his hand right through Jack’s, the metal and cybernetics feeling not quite _solid_ to Jack’s holo, but _more_ solid than the rest of Rhys, the way liquid is more solid than light.

Jack’s leaving kisses on and all around the neural port on Rhys’s temple–

(You shouldn’t be doing this, Jack.)

– one hand following the line of Rhys’s neck and jaw, the other trailing down Rhys’s chest in the wake of the shirt buttons being opened–

(What are you even getting out of this by this point, Jack.)

–pausing to draw circles along Rhys’s waist, and the way Rhys’s back is arched just tiny bit, hips resting on the edge of the chair, makes it easy for Jack to run his fingers over to the side and to the small of Rhys’s back–

And jerk his hand away because Rhys makes the weirdest freaking noise, his entire body actually _seizing_ for a moment, and Jack has a few seconds in which to wonder if all the messing around with the kid’s neural port has _actually_ glitched something out, before Rhys half-gasps, half-mutters, “no– don’t– _tickles–”_ and Jack realizes that the vaguely ultrasound _squawk_ just then was a laugh. Jack’s pretty sure he’s never heard Rhys laugh like that before. He would’ve remembered something _this_ ridiculous.

Jack makes a note of the tickle incident for future reference, lets his hand fall back onto Rhys waist–

(What future reference? It's not like you're gonna be doing anything like that again, Jack.)

–fingertips drawing a slow path to Rhys’s hipbone and then across his thigh, finding their way to Rhys’s left wrist, slipping along the back of Rhys’s hand–

(Noting down tickle spots, comparing laughs, what else have you been cataloguing about the kid, Jack, what else have you been paying attention to?)

–while the fingers of Jack’s other hand move from framing Rhys’s jaw to brushing over his lips, slipping _past_ his lips, yeah, Jack knows by now that Rhys likes that–

(Oh, okay, turns out you’ve been keeping track of _what he likes._ That’s one question asked and answered. Answer this next, Jack. Since when do you give a shit about stuff like that? Since when do you give a shit about–)

( _Shut up_ , Jack. Just this one time, for once in any of your fucking lives, can you just… not… be… _this_ ? Not be _Jack_ ? For one goddamn second, man? Weren’t you just _bitching_ and _moaning_ about doing colossally stupid shit, and wouldn’t it be _nice_ if the universe had save points, and look, _look_ , this one evening, this _one time_ , you just about managed to actually _get_ a freaking save point, to actually _reload_ one, and this, here, is what the reload looks like, _this_ is the different version, _this_ is the ‘try again’, and if you ruin this now, you’re not getting a second one. Do not ruin it. Do not _fucking_ ruin it. For one. Goddamn. _Second._ Shut. And I cannot stress this enough. The fuck up. Jack.)

Rhys makes a quiet humming noise around Jack’s fingers in his mouth. Jack’s other hand finds Rhys’s fingers and curls around them, Jack’s fingers on top of Rhys’s, slipping over them, around them, between them, through them. He keeps his lips pressed to Rhys’s temple. Traces the outline of the neural port with his tongue.

(...)

(There. Isn’t this so much better, Jack.)

Well. It’s not like shutting up has actually solved any practical issues, it’s not like it’s given Jack any new ways to feel things in this holo, or let up any of that tension that’s been making Jack teeter on the verge of disintegration. If anything, with none of his processing power diverted to his own running commentary, Jack’s feeling _more_ scattered, _more_ fragmented, a hard drive full of bad sectors, a program with pockets of corrupted code.

So. It really _shouldn’t_ feel any better. If anything, it should feel worse than ever.

Does feel better, though.

* * *

This is everything Rhys has ever wanted. Not that he’d be able to describe this exact scene if asked; and he expects he won’t be able to describe this scene afterwards. But that’s the before and the after. Rhys is always thinking about the before and the after, instead of the right now. Except, actually, _right now_.

Right now Rhys is too damn high to be thinking about anything, to _be_ anywhere except right now. Too high on exhaustion and sleep deprivation and the sheer _stress_ that has been the last sixty hours and the sheer _confusion_ that have been the last half an hour or so. High on the warm and cold electricity, the ozone and fresh snow, the trails of static on his skin, the hum in his cybernetics, on everything that is Jack’s kisses and touches, on everything that is _Jack._

( _“Wow, you really can’t help yourself around me, can you, cupca–” )_

(Shut up, Jack.)

It works. It actually works. For the moment, at least, Rhys doesn’t have to contend with the snipes and jabs and never-ending mockery, the voice in his head that is his own version of Jack, imagined, perhaps, but ever so realistic. This is… nice. Especially since _actual_ Jack, _real_ Jack, is also being so inexplicably… nice. So much nicer than the Jack in Rhys’s mind, the horrible voice Rhys can hear inside his head whether or not real Jack’s AI is anywhere _near_ his cybernetics.

Huh. What if…

No.

But what if…

_No._

But what if, what if, _what if._ What if having actual Jack, real Jack, the currently-inexplicably-nice Jack inside his head could displace some of the imagined-but-ever-so-realistic, _horrible_ Jack that Rhys’s mind keeps conjuring up. Just for a moment. Just for _this_ moment.

( _“Wow. That’s like… really dumb. You know that, right?”_ )

Rhys can’t help but chuckle. _He_ doesn’t like that, huh. Good.

He brushes his right hand over his lips, fingers passing through Jack’s hand with the tiniest buzz of feedback that’s familiar by now. The sense and taste of static leave Rhys’s mouth as Jack takes the cue and moves to running his hand along the side of Rhys’s face and neck, instead.

“Initiate handover of cybernetic function control,” Rhys whispers. He feels a smile spreading over his lips. “Authorization granted to program: Handsome Jack.”

“What was that, cupcake?” Jack’s voice mutters in his ear.

“Authorization granted by user: Rhys dash Atlas dash one.”

All of Jack’s movement stops. Every trail and touch of static on Rhys’s body is frozen. Rhys feels Jack’s hand leaving his hand, Jack’s lips leaving his temple, the contact with his cybernetics reduced to a minute touch point, probably a fingertip.

“Kiddo. Rhysie. _Rhys._ ” There’s a weird, unfamiliar urgency in Jack’s voice. Almost… alarm? “Open your eyes. Look at me. Look at me _now._ ”

Rhys opens his eyes, slowly. Jack’s face is right in front of him. Expression as weird and unfamiliar as his voice.

“What do you think you’re doing,” Jack whispers.

“What does it look like I’m doing, Jack,” Rhys whispers back. “Access over–”

“Stop. Stop… talking, cupcake.” Jack closes his eyes. Swallows. “Just… stop.”

“Why.”

Jack shakes his head, slowly, eyebrows furrowed over closed eyes. Says nothing. Rhys also says nothing, until Jack is looking at him again.

“Please, Jack.”

For a few seconds, Jack stares at him. The same weird, unfamiliar expression. Like he’s afraid of something. Which would be ridiculous, because what could _Jack_ ever be afraid of.

“Authorization granted by user: Rhys dash Atlas dash one,” Rhys repeats his earlier command, keeping his eyes locked on Jack’s face. Locked on Jack’s eyes.

(If you’re gonna say anything, Jack, you need to say it now. Or just let go. That would do it.)

Jack says nothing. Does nothing. Does not let go.

“Access override.”

As Rhys feels the firewall collapse inside his mind, Jack’s hologram vanishes in front of Rhys’s eyes, leaving a trail of blue pixels that fades a moment later.

Jack fills his mind again, and it’s not a shock and a surge like last time, but an expansion, a tidal wave rising, a spring unfurling, and Rhys waits for the _crash_ of the wave onto him, for the _snap_ of the coiled metal through him.

To be crushed and pinned and overpowered. Overwhelmed. Suffocated. Any moment now.

None of that happens. If anything, having Jack in his mind right now feels like the exact opposite of everything Rhys had come to expect. It feels like taking a slow, sweet, deep breath, after hours or days or weeks of rationing oxygen in tiny mouthfuls.

Rhys lets his own eyes close, his head fall back against the armchair. He feels a smile on his lips, and he doesn’t know who’s smiling right now, and he doesn’t care.

Looks like Rhys was wrong, earlier.

_This_ is actually everything he’s ever wanted. Everything he’s ever needed. _Actually_ everything.

* * *

Rhys’s body is all heartbeat and breath and warmth and _life,_ and Jack soaks it all up like a starved ghost, because that’s what he is, he hasn’t been alive in so long, not for real, not like _this._ He said something earlier tonight, feels like such a long time ago, that what with Rhys being so exhausted, letting Jack in again would probably knock Rhys right out. Right now, though, out of the two of them, it’s Jack who feels like he might just black out, from the sheer _intensity_ of being inside a living, breathing body, being able to feel, _really_ feel.

These aren’t the ones and zeroes of Jack’s everyday holo existence. These aren’t the decimals of the moments when Jack makes contact with Rhys’s cybernetics. This isn’t even the sim at Atlas, the closest thing to corporeality Jack has experienced in his memory as this AI. The sim at Atlas was to life in holo what life in holo was to the place with nothing in it. Huge difference, yes, but conceivable, measurable gaps. You could still see the other side if you looked back.

Not from here, though. And why would he even wanna look back.

(Does he realize you’re _never giving this up_?)

This is exactly what Jack thought it was gonna be like. What Jack _feared_ it was gonna be like. Why he tried to stop Rhys just there. Just for a moment, but Jack tried, okay. He fucking _tried_.

But Jack had no chance, did he. Not when being offered this. And Rhys didn’t just _offer_. He placed this into Jack’s hands and asked, practically _begged_ Jack to take it. Was there even any chance of Jack saying no. To this. To being alive like this.

Jack had no chance. And now, neither does Rhys. This is–

* * *

–right and complete and _whole_ again, and it’s the same feeling Rhys had the last time he let Jack into his mind, when it felt like getting back a piece of him that’s been missing, that’s been _missed_ , but this time, that piece feels different; but if it’s different, then it makes no sense that it should fit inside his Rhys’s mind just as well as before; except actually, maybe it doesn’t, because somehow, it, he, they, Jack, Rhys, _all of it_ fits together better this time around.

Rhys moves his hand again, and his own touch sends a jolt through him like never before. The same tension, the same pleasure, but with so much more feedback, a full-bodied echo, an extra dimension to it, like… like a feeling that’s felt by more than one person. Of course.

* * *

(He _doesn’t_ realize it, does he. He’s just going on. As if nothing’s wrong. As if once this is over, you’re just gonna step out and let him have his body back. Is he really _that_ stupid? Does he think you’d _ever_ do something like _that_? Has he never _met_ you? Or has he forgotten who you _are_?)

(Nonono _no,_ shutup _shutup,_ not fucking _now,_ not fucking _yet_ , okay. Just give him– give me– Give _everyone_ a moment here.)

* * *

Rhys feels his right hand tighten its hold on the armrest again. He has no idea whether it’s him or Jack gripping the velvety fabric with cybernetic fingers. It doesn’t seem to matter at this point.

A sound leaves his lips. Rhys is too dazed to name it, to know if it’s a sigh or a moan or a chuckle, to even know if it’s his or Jack’s, or something from both of them. Doesn’t matter, either. Whatever sound comes next, he doesn’t question it.

* * *

Rhys’s mind, body, _everything_ is _alight_ around Jack, cybernetics and organics coiled into an incandescent double helix, every heartbeat a neutron pulse, every synapse a nova.

And Jack’s in the middle of it all. Trying to hold himself together, somehow. Hold on to something, anything, _anything,_ to stop himself from falling into all of this chaos and light and _Rhys_.

There’s nothing for Jack to hold on to, though. There isn’t anything here _but_ Rhys.

Rhys, and now also–

* * *

“Jack…”

* * *

Trying to hold on was a stupid idea, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A million thank-you's to [Morpheus Dreamt](https://twitter.com/morpheusdreamt) for this [INCREDIBLE fan art.](https://twitter.com/morpheusdreamt/status/1314353323953225728)


	6. Confounding Variables

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are. What had started out as 'a quick follow-up to Static' and 'let's have some fun with holograms', has resulted in 6 chapters and 14k+ words of feels.  
> Thank you for reading, and I hope this last chapter delivers a satisfying (narrative) conclusion.

Jack’s own mind settles as Rhys’s mind settles around him, searing light and sensory overload fading to a comfortable glow and warm silence. Like energy saving mode. Or what they say falling asleep is _supposed_ to feel like. Except no-one actually falls asleep like this. Jack certainly never has; even back in the day when sleep was something he could do, the only options for moving from wake to sleep were hitting a wall of exhaustion, or fitfully drifting in and out, or floating off on the day’s chosen cocktail of booze and/or drugs and/or actual meds.

This… peaceful stuff, though? Gotta be bullshit.

Okay, but is the kid _actually_ falling asleep? With Jack still in here, everywhere in his systems, with full access – Jack reaches out experimentally – yes, still with full access to information and neural network and cybernetics and, as soon as Rhys is unconscious, just plain _full access_?

Well, this ain’t good.

Not good for Rhys, that is. For Jack, this is almost everything he’s ever wanted, and more than he could’ve expected. And he didn’t even need to fight the kid for this. This was a freaking _gift_.

Oh, but it really was, though, the last however many minutes, with Jack feeling so _alive,_ and real, and _not_ real at the same time, but the good kind of not-real, the kind you can look back on and think ‘wow, that was… a thing’.

Jack reaches out to Rhys’s mind, a cybernetic equivalent of a prod on the shoulder. No response.

“Hey there, cupcake,” says Jack, making sure his voice gets across to Rhys’s audio processing.

“Mhhm.” Is the only answer Rhys dignifies him with.

“Just checking if we’re done here? Everyone goes about their business now?”

Rhys lifts his head for a moment, blinks slowly, once, twice.

“Sure,” he mutters, before letting his head droop again, chin on chest.

Jack feels a growl growing at the back of his currently non-existent throat. What the fuck, kid. What the actual fucking fuck.

Okay. Okay. One last thing. Actually last. If this doesn’t do the trick, then Jack accepts no responsibility for what happens next.

With Rhys’s cybernetic arm, Jack grabs the armrest (on purpose this time), and puts some pressure on the hand, pushes down so that the rest of Rhys is pushed up. A suggestion to get to his feet. And a reminder that _Jack’s still in here, idiot, you let him in without a single safeguard or time cut-off, this is your second and last freaking warning, so take the hint, take the fucking hint already, and don’t ask why you’re getting any warnings at all, just consider yourself lucky, I guess?_

Rhys gets to his feet, stumbles across the short distance from the armchair to the bed, and falls into the bed face-first. Not bothering to get under the covers, or take his clothes off, or firewall Handsome Goddamn Jack who’s currently inside his head and in full control of his cybernetics and, increasingly, physical faculties.

Jack wants to punch something. Actually, yes, that’s what he should do right now. Take over Rhys, stand him up, and put his fist through a wall. That’ll feel good, and wake the kid up enough to finally click into what’s going on and put back the freaking firewall, _and_ give the idiot bloody knuckles as the smallest taste of the trouble he could’ve landed himself in.

Yeah. That’s what Jack’s gonna do.

Or.

Or reach into the beautiful, softly glowing web of Rhys’s cybernetics in front of him, enter through any of the hundreds of subroutines Jack can see right now. Override. _Overwrite._ Make all of this Jack’s. Make all of this _Jack._

Weave his code through every part of Rhys, so thoroughly that Rhys would never be able to get him out, not without destroying _all_ of himself this time. Not that Rhys would even get a chance to try. Because Jack could do all of this so carefully, so gently, so tenderly that Rhys wouldn’t even wake up.

Rhys wouldn’t even know what’s happening. He’d never have to know. No fighting, no pain, no terror. Rhys would just stay in this sweet, warm, peaceful sleep forever, a tiny glowing echo at the back of Jack’s mind. Jack would even make sure that Rhys, or what would remain of Rhys, dreamed the sweetest of dreams.

It would be so simple. It would be so _merciful._ Jack would live again. And Rhys… would sleep.

Yes, thinks Jack, almost peacefully, mind warmed by the soft cybernetic glow, thoughts lulled by Rhys’s slow breath and heartbeat. This is what he’s gonna do.

Or.

Or Jack could sleep, too. Or do the next best thing, anyway, power down just enough that he can’t hear his own thoughts. Just for a little while. With Rhys’s brain no longer running on fumes, his cybernetics have plenty of processing power for the both of them, even in this energy-saving mode during sleep. There’s so much room here now. None of the wanna-peel-off-your-own-skin feeling of the last few days. None of the subtle, don’t-notice-till-it’s-gone pressure of Jack’s usual firewalled bubble.

It’s quiet. It’s… nice here. Really fucking nice. Why not stay. For a little while.

(Who’d have thought you were the cuddling type, Jack.)

Ah, shit, thinks Jack. Here we go again. Should’ve powered down faster, man.

He manifests his hologram to stand by the foot of Rhys’s bed. Spends some time standing there, looking down at Rhys.

Rhys. Just lying there. Asleep. Completely defenseless. Entirely at Jack’s mercy. As if there even is such a thing. As if there ever was.

Jack turns on his heel and stalks to the door, through the door, down the hotel corridor.

(Would you look at that, Jack. You talk a big game about how tough and merciless you are, and now you just let the kid be. What’s the matter? Getting soft, old man?)

Jack keeps walking, even as a pull on his pixels tells him he’s straying too far from Rhys. He pushes past it, till the feeling becomes a full-body itch, then full-body toothache, then full-body migraine. Takes a few steps back, finds a bearable degree of the ‘toothache’ level. So that’s his roaming range in the current mode, a radius of thirty meters or so, if he’s eyeballing the distance correctly.

(So that’s how it is, Jack. The best opportunity of your current lifetime falls right into your lap, and you’re just… letting it go. Has all this time in holo scrambled your brain? Need a quick defrag?)

Jack reaches the door of Rhys’s room again and walks right past. Let’s count the steps this time, he decides, estimate the roaming range more precisely. It’s useful data.

(Or maybe you’ve been too focused on something else in your lap? Couple of weeks away from the sim, and suddenly, it’s your kingdom for a handjob? Half a handjob, even: technically, you two _were_ sharing.)

Roughly forty steps. That _is_ about thirty meters, right? Jack reaches a digital finger towards Rhys’s connection to ECHOnet, looks up a quick formula for stride-by-height calculation.

(It’s not the sex, though, is it, Jack? You weren’t just desperate to get laid. You were just plain desperate. And lonely. Desperately lonely. Begging for human contact like a dog at the table. And now that the kid threw you a bone (hah), you’ve shot all the way straight to grateful. Pathetically grateful. Or just plain pathetic.)

Jack approaches the other end of the roaming range again. So it’s twenty steps before any discomfort sets in, then another ten before he hits toothache–

(What do you think tonight even was? You think you’re now, what, lovers or something? Friends with benefits?)

–and from there, it’s maybe five or seven steps to the full-body migraine, and then the boundaries get fuzzy and the pain grows exponentially. Probably not a good idea to push past that.

(Or even just plain friends? That’d be enough, right? Is that what you wanna be? You wanna be his friend?)

But this close to the fuzzy border of his roaming range, things aren’t just painful, they’re also progressively _louder._ Maybe the noise will be loud enough to drown out the voice in his head.

(Do you actually _like_ the kid, or something? Are you _fond_ of him? Are you _in love,_ Jack?)

The noise changes nothing. It only makes sense that the bastard in Jack’s head won’t shut up, ‘cause the bastard in Jack’s head is Jack. Wherever you go, there you are, right.

Still. In all that bullshit, there _is_ one question Jack _would_ like to get an answer to. _Is_ he in love with Rhys?

Jack retraces his steps till the tinny buzz in his head is bearable again, leans against a wall, and lets himself think. Actually think, instead of inventing more stupid step-counting distractions.

He’s _not_ in love with Rhys, Jack decides. Because being in love with Rhys would be a terrible idea. Jack doesn’t do unrequited, Jack doesn’t do quiet pining, and Jack doesn’t do the ‘if you love them, let them go’ bullshit. No, if Jack decided he was in love with Rhys, Jack would then do everything to win him, to have him, to make sure Rhys was _his._ Which would be a real fucking stupid idea right now, given that the kid low-key hates him (something Jack doesn’t blame him for), and given that Jack’s record in handling rejection is, uh, less than stellar.

So. Not in love. Probably not friends, either, ‘cause friendship is also a two-way street, and, yeah, Rhys has no reason to think of Jack as his friend.

But maybe, just maybe, just ever so slightly on this side of possible. Maybe Jack… trusts Rhys. A little.

(Trust? Seriously, Jack? Trust?? That’s the worst thing yet, man. The absolute worst. Like, _yeah,_ anyone can get stupid over a pretty face now and then, and you’re only human, sorta. Anyone can get lonely, too, and let’s be honest, two years _is_ a fucking long time to spend with just the kid and yourself to talk to. But _trust_? You can’t do that, man. You just can’t.)

Oh, no. He should’ve stuck with step-counting games. Mistake. Mistake. Abort thought process. Sound evacuation.

Except there’s nowhere to evacuate to. Wherever you go, there you are, remember.

Jack can already see the train of thought barreling towards him and squeezes his eyes shut. As if that could possibly change anything. It doesn’t. The train slams into him, drags him along, any remains of self-control and reason mashing into pulp under the wheels.

(He’s gonna betray you, Jack. He’s got no reason not to. You betrayed him first, after all. You made a promise, and then you broke it. Why should he do any different?)

Jack clenches his fists, but that’s just really fucking unsatisfying right now.

(Don’t tell me you _really_ thought he was gonna bring you back to life? Three years, that’s what you two agreed on, you help him run Atlas for three years, during which he explores every option to get you a body, and now it’s been two years and change, and how’s that corporeality situation looking, hmm?)

Jack pushes off the wall and strides forward, not eyeballing distances or counting steps anymore. The high-pitch hum, buzz, whine in his head is growing, and he can’t tell if it’s the perimeter alert, or an actual migraine, or fuck knows what else.

He beat you, Jack. He watched you _beg._ On your _knees._ He watched you beg him not to send you to the void, to the _nothing,_ and then he did it anyway. And he only brought you back ‘cause he needs you, but he knows that _you_ need him more. He’s got all the power. He’s calling all the shots now. He’s got you, Jack. He owns you. You’re at his mercy, Jack. You’re here by his leave.

(Jack doesn’t watch where he’s going, doesn’t care if he’s gonna push past his roaming range, if his holographic projection is gonna disintegrate when he does (probably), if he’s gonna find himself right back in Rhys’s room when that happens (likely), and what’s gonna happen then (bad things).)

Jack. He crashed Helios.

“FUCK!”

(Jack punches out, blindly. Inexplicably, his fist seems to connect with something.)

Opening his eyes, Jack finds his holographic arm elbow-deep in a vending machine. The machine’s screen flickers some. Jack moves his hand through, experimentally. The screen flickers some more.

Huh. 

Jack _did_ have a plan to try and hack a vending machine tonight. Ripping one’s programming to pieces is looking like a much better idea at the moment.

Please have an AI, thinks Jack, reaching deeper into the vending machine’s code. However rudimentary. Like, we’re talking CL4P-TP level or below. God, _one percent_ of a CL4P-TP would do. It doesn’t have to be _actually_ intelligent. It just needs to be sentient enough to know it’s dying while Jack is killing it.

The machine’s code nothing to offer except beyond thoroughly automated triggers for offering hot or cold drinks with purchases of sweet and savory snacks, respectively. Jack briefly contemplates actually writing an AI for this thing. A basic first-generation procure-bot like they had in Hyperion vending machines, something that adjusts orders for resupplies based on demand, foot traffic, time of year, etc. It would take him less than an hour, and then he could watch a brand new digital life form stretch its proverbial legs, settle in its new home, get the hang of how everything works… and then he’d obliterate it, crush it, pull it apart line by screaming line, reduce it to a heap of terrified bytes.

(Yeah. Create something, just to destroy it. Just ‘cause you can. That’s some sweet, _sweet,_ god-level shit.)

(Yeah… Except you’re not a god, Jack. You’re a ghost.)

Jack glares at the vending machine as he pokes and prods different lines of its thoroughly non-intelligent code to manipulate the flickering screen’s output. Oh yeah, spelling out profanities and drawing digital dicks on a screen, some god-like powers right there, kids.

Then again. If Jack _is_ a ghost, he’s currently a ghost with an enhanced ability to fuck around with electronics. In a building full of unsuspecting sleeping idiots, in rooms full of radios, speakers, ECHOs and all kinds of things with digital innards.

Okay, thinks Jack, a grin crawling onto his face. Let’s see how many guests this shitty hotel still has by morning.

* * *

Rhys has no idea what time it is when he wakes up, but the light, even through his eyelids, is bright enough to know it’s so far into the morning, it’s probably almost afternoon. He keeps his eyes closed for a moment, letting his brain start working properly before he has to face Jack’s regularly scheduled morning commentary. Today, it’ll probably be something about ‘sleeping in like goddamn royalty’, resulting in his nickname for the rest of the day being ‘princess’.

Maybe Jack thinks that if he spends every morning bitching like that, Rhys will finally change the setting that prevents Jack from actually waking him up. Not happening. By now, Rhys’s sanity, or what remains of it, hinges on the ability to sleep with Jack set to– sleep _while_ Jack is set to mute.

And _this_ is why, Rhys, you wait till you’re actually awake before facing him. Otherwise you’d say all of that out loud, including the part about ‘sleeping with Jack’, and the man would laugh while you’d sit there blushing like an idiot. Or worse, Jack wouldn’t laugh, but give Rhys _that_ look, _that_ dark half-grin, and Rhys would need to find an excuse to leave the room before Jack said something like–

_“Go on, kiddo.”_

Rhys’s eyes shoot open.

Fuck.

_“Tell me what you got in mind.”_

FUCK.

Lying as still as possible, Rhys accesses last night’s footage from his ECHO eye. Rewinds all the way to the mugging attempt that had cost him his dinner, then fast-forwards in quick bursts. Tired bickering as Jack paces the hotel room. Asking Jack about that one time, a few weeks ago, when Rhys let the firewall down to test his updated OS and the voice commands (limited access, motor function cut-off, five-minute time limit that got extended by another five, and then maybe another ten; after which Rhys triple-scanned every piece of his cybernetics to make sure Jack hadn’t screwed with anything, and was pretty surprised to find that Jack hadn’t). But that was okay, those were just neutral questions, right?

_“How come I felt things… back then? I mean, like when you… Like your hands, on my face, and… Yeah.”_

Okay, Rhys didn’t _phrase_ that very neutrally, but that was because he was tired and not–

_“I’m really not thinking straight anymore.”_

–yes, he said as much and–

_“Ground rules. We kiss. We touch. This is the line.”_

–yes, Rhys really wasn’t thinking straight, but hey, trust Jack to ruin everything by being a dick. That’s what Jack did, he changed his mind and was going to walk out on him, and Rhys was going to let him–

_“Jack. Can we rewind?”_

_“I’m gonna kiss you now.”_

_“Do that again…”_

_“How about I give you some privacy?”_

_“I’d rather you stayed.”_

In present day, Rhys closes his eyes. He doesn’t need to watch any more of the footage. He doesn’t even _need_ to listen to know what happened next. But he listens, as if hoping that there’s something he’s forgotten in the moment, something he was too tired to remember, something Jack said or did to– well, not to _make_ Rhys do anything, come on, even Jack’s not _that_ much of an asshole, but to… nudge the evening down a certain road, maybe? Jack’s good at that, right? Getting things to go his way. Manipulating people. Especially Rhys.

Except, if the ECHO eye footage is to be believed, Jack, in a very non-Jack-like fashion, actually said very little at all. Rhys, on the other hand…

_“You don’t have to just watch.” … “I’m really fucking sick of the line, Jack.” … “Just touch me already, Jack.”_

Yes, Rhys. Jack really had to twist your freaking arm there, didn’t he. Pulled every trick in the book. Seduced the absolute fuck out of you. What a bastard, right.

Rhys groans and drags his hands down his face.

His metal fingers feel different than usual against his skin. Not by much. The subtlest of difference, like stepping on a certain floorboard in your house of many years, and finding it gives just that little bit differently under your foot. Not wrong, not bad, just… different.

Rhys freezes mid-move, holds his breath, wills his heart to stop beating. The ECHO footage is still playing, but he doesn’t need to hear his own voice say the commands to know what he did. He let Jack in. No time limit. No motor function restriction. Full access.

And even though he can’t see or hear Jack right now, Rhys can tell. By that subtlest difference in his cybernetics. That tiny bit of extra sensory feedback in his metal fingers. Rhys can tell. Rhys knows.

That Jack’s still in there. In here. In him. With him.

Rhys speaks, in the quietest voice possible that would still get picked up by his system as a voice command. The shortest emergency shutdown command in his arsenal.

“All stop.”

All… stops. His body, his cybernetics, his mind, it’s all his again. It’s all Rhys. One-hundred-percent Rhys, aside from the glass bubble housing Jack: soundproof and perfectly insulated. It’s just as before. He can see Jack (when Jack wants to be seen). He can hear Jack (when Rhys chooses to hear him). But never touch.

The difference, it turns out, was never that subtle. Going back to normal… it doesn’t feel like fixing up whatever was making your house of many years feel that little bit wrong. More like, returning to your house of many years after spending almost as many years away. It’s all still there. It’s all still the same. But it’s going to be a while before it feels like home again.

Exactly how pathetic does that make him? That, Rhys decides, is a question for later. For example, for after he’s spent at least an hour scanning every corner of his system for any rootkit, virus or piece of spyware Jack could’ve left behind.

Come to think of it, where _is_ Jack? Rhys thought he would appear as soon as the firewall went back up again. But there’s still no trace of him, and Rhys chases the thought away. Best not speak of the devil, and when the devil literally lives inside your head, best not to think of him too hard, either. Rhys would really like to finish the scan in peace.

The first, quick stage of the scan only takes ten minutes, and Rhys can already see that nothing is _obviously_ wrong. He launches a deep scan, because when it comes to Jack, he doesn’t want to take any chances.

Any _more_ chances, that is. Any chances except, you know, inviting Jack in like he was some kind of handsome vampire and Rhys a blushing virgin desperate to get bitten. Except falling asleep without even thinking of the firewall. 

(Guess what, Rhys. Looks like you really _did_ sleep with Jack.)

Oh yes, Rhys thinks, fighting the urge to tear out his own hair. Take no chances. So careful. So freaking careful. Firewalls and failsafes, all the way.

Right up until the point where you give Jack the run of your cybernetics, mind and body, while you’re riding way too high to care if you’re going to die in the next few seconds, as long as that ride gets you where you want to go, _and_ as long as you also get there with Jack.

What the fuck were you thinking, Rhys? What the _fuck_ were you thinking.

Then again, between the intoxicating electricity on his neural port, and the taste of ozone and fresh snow in his mouth, and the soft trails of static on his thighs, and the chilling warmth and sweet sting that were Jack’s fingers following, and echoing, and anticipating every movement of Rhys’s own hand–

Rhys shakes his head. What was he thinking just now? Ah. Yes. He was thinking that last night, he wasn’t thinking. Because of– _no,_ Rhys, this is how you end up in an infinite loop. 

Try again. Question: what were you thinking? Answer: you weren’t thinking anything at all.

(You could’ve died. You _should’ve_ died.)

Why didn’t he die, though? Why is Rhys still here, in his body, in control, and, it’s looking increasingly likely, without any nasty surprises left in his system by Jack?

Only Jack knows the answer to that. Rhys is never asking him. Which means Rhys will never know. Probably best not to think about it too hard. Maybe Rhys just… got lucky.

(Oh, but you did. You _so_ did.)

Rhys’s thoughts drift back to the feeling of Jack in his mouth as he kissed him, the feeling of Jack all throughout his body as Jack touched his neural port, the feeling of Jack all throughout his… everything as Rhys let him in.

(You can never do that again. Never. _Never,_ Rhys. Don’t even think about it.)

Of course he can’t. Of course he won’t. But–

Rhys glances around the room. Jack’s still nowhere to be seen. And there’s at least half an hour left on the current portion of the scan.

–but that doesn’t mean Rhys can’t spend a little longer thinking about it.


End file.
